Published in September/October 2007

by Carl Christie

About 30 years ago during a fall exercise in Germany, Kelly Kuzyk of Victoria went for a walk with one of his armoured corps crewmates while they awaited their turn to load their Leopard tank onto the train for the trip back to Lahr. Not surprisingly, they stopped for a beverage or two in a nearby village and did not leave the drinking establishment to return to their unit until well after dark.

While passing a very gothic-looking house surrounded by a high stone and metal fence, Kuzyk noticed a neat sign attached to a big tree in the front yard. With its imposing German calligraphy, the striking sign proved impossible to resist. Full of German beer, our young and foolish comrade (as he now admits) decided to liberate the sign and hang it in his room back in the barracks.

He scaled the fence with some difficulty and then climbed up the tree to get the sign. His efforts to detach his prize, fastened very tightly to a branch, occasioned all manner of grunts and groans and other miscellaneous noises as he tried to pull it off. Amazingly, he did not wake up the entire neighbourhood.

Finally, after several minutes of struggle, the sign let go. The prize-seeking young soldier fell to the ground with a noisy thump, prompting hoots of laughter and giggling from both sides of the fence. After rescaling the fence he and his friend hurried back to their unit and retired for the night.

The next morning Kuzyk asked a German-fluent crewmate what the sign said. Taking a quick look at it, he replied: "Keep Out--Extreme Danger--Mad Dog."

* * *

In May 1942, when the Queen's Own Rifles of Canada started recruiting a 3rd battalion in Toronto, Elwyn Smith of Banff, Alta., was one of the first to sign up. He reports that they stayed in their own homes and went downtown to the University Avenue armoury for daily training.

"The Brass," as our correspondent puts it, took every opportunity for publicity, calling upon the recruits for many extra-duty public appearances. One such occasion came with the cross-country tour of Canada by Gracie Fields. The new QORC soldiers found themselves lined up as an honour guard for the arrival of the British stage mega-star at Union Station.

Most members of the honour guard were getting "cheesed off" with all the extra activities at night instead of being able to spend time at home and it must have showed. Positioned in the front rank of the guard, close to the rear of the observation car of the train, Elwyn Smith had a clear view of the distinguished passenger as she stepped down from the car. He could not help but notice how tired she looked and felt sorry for her.

Between feeling sorry for himself and for her, our young soldier must have had an unusual woebegone expression on his face. As Gracie Fields passed by the guard of honour she caught his eye. Out of the corner of her mouth came these immortal words: "Pain in the arse, ain't it mate?"

"Oh Gracie," Smith recalls today, "no wonder she was loved so much by the British people."

* * *

In 1942, while stationed in England, L. Bishop of Brossard, Que., received a parcel from home. By the time he had unwrapped it to reveal a large, sweet-smelling, homemade cake, a crowd had gathered around him, their eyes glistening with expectation and their mouths drooling at the sight.

An unwritten rule required the equal sharing of parcel contents with all members of the platoon. On this occasion the recipient endeavoured to negotiate a settlement whereby he could keep half the cake and surrender the other half to be divided amongst the others. He was immediately outvoted.

A head-count of those present revealed one man missing, leaving 29 to share the cake. A volunteer, apparently with experience in such matters, undertook the task and did a remarkable job of dividing the cake into 29 equal pieces. Each soldier in turn took a piece and wasted no time in gulping it down.

As the last in line, Bishop had just reached for the final piece when the door burst open and in came the missing comrade. The parcel recipient had no choice but to break his piece in half and share it with him.

When he wrote home he felt the urge to say, "We all enjoyed the cake" but contented himself with a simple "Thanks for the cake. It was delicious!"

A year later while serving in Italy, Bishop received another cake from home. This time the parcel contained other items that he had requested, including some shoe polish. Unfortunately, the package took a long roundabout route to reach him, including a shuffle to North Africa and even on to Egypt. When it finally reached the addressee, it had weathered many a hot day. The shoe polish had melted and burst out of the tin spreading itself over the cake like chocolate icing.

This time there was no outcry to share before the cake was chucked into the garbage.

* * *

Chief Warrant Officer Gord Hudson, a Canadian Forces supply technician who wears an air force-blue uniform, sent an e-mail from Trenton, Ont., about just that subject. Stationed at Valcartier, Que., when the current Distinctive Environmental Uniforms (or DEUs) were introduced several years ago, he was initially assigned the green army uniform. A third-generation airman, he challenged this allocation, arguing that he had equal time on air bases and a family history of service in the Royal Canadian Air Force. The powers-that-be accepted his arguments and he has worn the blue DEU with pride ever since. Even so, the uniform colour has not stopped him from serving with all three environments--with many good times in each.

One of Hudson's postings took him to the Canadian Forces School of Administration and Logistics as an instructor for his supply tech trade. While instructing QL3s (Qualification Level 3, akin to the old RCAF trades training) he met a young recruit named Gird Osmond and feels confident that he taught him many valuable lessons. But the best one did not come until long after he left the school.

Fully 15 years later teacher and pupil were both posted to Her Majesty's Canadian Ship Halifax, Hudson as the warrant officer in Supply and Osmond a master corporal, both proudly sporting air force blue. Each of them liked to display pride in their environmental affiliation any way possible.

On one occasion, while at sea on a North Atlantic Treaty Organization deployment, the dress of the day was Naval Combat Dress (or NCDs); however, as air force our two supply techs were allowed to wear blue name tags and blue slip-ons. For some reason the navy suddenly changed the policy to have everyone in NCDs wear black navy name tape sewn on their uniforms, with air force and army members retaining their environmental slip-ons. As supply techs the two airmen had to order new name tapes. Many came in but their own were either forgotten or had spelling mistakes. "Imagine that!" Chief Hudson comments on looking back.

With the coxswain getting a bit upset, the supply WO--as a good senior non-commissioned member--made sure that a correct order was placed without his master corporal's knowledge. When the name tapes arrived, Hudson's staff distributed them to everyone concerned--save Osmond.

Hudson had his own new black navy name tape on his uniform the next morning when the coxswain visited the stores office during the section's morning meeting. He thanked the warrant for wearing his new name tapes. Osmond was there and swore up and down that he did not know why his name tapes never came in, adding that if they ever did he would have them on before the following morning and proudly wear them for the coxswain to see.

With that the cox'n took the new name tapes--that Hudson had handed to him about 15 minutes earlier--and presented them to Gird, who could clearly see that Osmond was spelled correctly this time. As the cox'n departed, a certain master corporal--a Cape Bretoner never at a loss for words--was left to thank his old instructor profusely, with many words that most of the crew heard but that cannot be repeated here. He had the name tapes on the next morning.

"Lesson learned," the chief concludes proudly. "Supply techs and other support trades must go with the flow and conform to the environment we are supporting at the time, especially when the Cox'n is upset."

Hudson asks that his remuneration for this contribution be donated to the Poppy Fund in memory of his grandfather, Arthur Croasdell, and his father, Leonard "Slim" Hudson, both proud members of the RCAF.

* * *

Bill Murdock of Sombra, Ont., remembers hitting some rough weather in the mid-Atlantic on returning with HMCS Magnificent from Scotland in 1957. Most of the mess decks were flooded and a lot of kit was damaged by salt water.

In Halifax orders from the Admiralty came to the ship that any kit ruined by the sea water would be replaced at no charge.

"Here's my chance to get a new pair of boots," a mess-mate reasoned aloud.

He then got a pail of salt water and proceeded to dip his old boots into it to give them the appearance of salt-water damage. Facing his mess-mates by a hatch, he sat immersing his boots while telling everyone about his plans for getting new ones. He did not notice that the "Officer of the Watch" (his division officer, by the way) had entered the mess and was standing right behind him.

Murdock and the other mess-mates came to attention but the sailor intent of acquiring new footwear did not look up from his work in the pail as he continued talking about his plan.

He did not get his new boots but his mates all got a great belly laugh. In fact, he had to buy new boots to replace the ones he salted.

* * *

In 1943, Alex Barrett of Vancouver relates, the Rocky Mountain Rangers from Kamloops, B.C., were on practice manoeuvres in the Aleutians prior to attacking Kiska. They were to land, make a beach-head and remain for three days on Great Sitkin Island, which had been volcanic and featured dark grey to black beaches.

"Their" beach was about a hundred yards long with heavy rollers breaking along its length. The idea was to bring the landing craft rolling in on a wave, drop the ramp, unload the platoon, and then back the craft off. It would prove a tricky manoeuvre in those swells. Still, Barrett's platoon was lucky. The boat rode well in on a wave and remained at right angles to the beach the few seconds necessary until the men dashed through the shallow water and on to the beach.

Lieutenant Johnnie Carner's platoon was not so fortunate. Their boat got "beached" and the ramp was lowered in a hurry. The men followed Johnnie into the foamy surf. Some went up to their armpits and higher. When Johnnie got ashore he threw off his equipment and went back to help his men. Some could not swim and could easily have been carried out by the undertow. Finally, Johnnie got all his men ashore. The next thought that came to his mind was the equipment.

"Do we have all the Bren (guns)?" he shouted.

"Yes Sir."

"Who has the mortar?"

Nobody answered for a moment and then a voice said, "It's still on the landing barge."

What Johnnie replied could not be printed.

Back in he went. By now the landing barge was lying along the beach, the ramp down and the grey surf sloshing in and out about a foot deep. He began feeling around in the sand and foamy bottom.

The coxswain, from his perch high on the stern saw this strange sight and called out, "What are you looking for?"

"I'm trying to find a mortar," Carner shouted back.

"Heck man," cried the cox'n, "you'll never find a quarter in all that swill!"

* * *

This is the first column in some time that has been assembled solely from recent submissions, thanks to the response of readers to our special appeal several months ago. Even so, we can always use good original stories about your experiences in uniform. Send contributions to Legion Magazine, either via snail mail or e-mail, or directly to carl.christie@ gmail.com.